


Like an Old Friend

by herebewyverns



Category: The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2019-08-08 22:25:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16437977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herebewyverns/pseuds/herebewyverns
Summary: Mary Lennox has known Death for a very long time. Long enough that she feels able to ask for a favour.





	1. There Is No One Left

_At that very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the servants’ quarters that she clutched the young man’s arm, and Mary stood shivering from head to foot. The wailing grew wilder and wilder. “What is it? What is it?” Mrs. Lennox gasped._

_“Someone has died,” answered the boy officer. “You did not say it had broken out among your servants.”_

_“I did not know!” the Mem Sahib cried. “Come with me! Come with me!” and she turned and ran into the house._

_After that appalling things happened, and the mysteriousness of the morning was explained to Mary. The cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people were dying like flies. The Ayah had been taken ill in the night, and it was because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts. Before the next day three other servants were dead and others had run away in terror. There was panic on every side, and dying people in all the bungalows._

_During the confusion and bewilderment of the second day Mary hid herself in the nursery and was forgotten by everyone. Nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and strange things happened of which she knew nothing. Mary alternately cried and slept through the hours. She only knew that people were ill and that she heard mysterious and frightening sounds_.

*

Mary wakes up to find a strange person in her room. She is not especially surprised or startled by this, as she knows her Ayah is dead and therefore she will likely get a new one. This adult is not at all like her old Ayah, but Mary decides that they will do.

“You are my new Ayah.” She does not ask. She does not need to.

The figure looks startled. **_No._**

Mary is not used to being told ‘No’, and she refuses to accept it, although something about the figure standing in the corner tells her that she should neither scream at them nor kick them. She tries logic instead.

“Of course you are my new Ayah. My old one has died of the cholera and I must have a new one. You are in my room, so you must be my new Ayah.”

The figure still seems surprised, but they still nod as if agreeing with Mary’s reasoning.

**_I can see your point, Mary Lennox. But I am not an Ayah, I am Death._ **

Mary did not see any reason why the figure, Death, could not be her new Ayah, and besides, she was very tired of being forgotten, and hungry. She had been shockingly neglected recently, and she wished for food and company immediately.

She expressed these things to Death in her most imperious tones, and she waited while Death thought this all through. It took some time, and when Death spoke next, they seemed a little uncertain.

**_I have never taken care of the living before, Mary Lennox. I do not expect to be very good at it. You would be much better off with another._ **

“I expect so too, but no one has come and you are here. You may take care of me until others come, and I will tell you how.”

Mary felt that she had been most extraordinarily patient with her new Ayah, but she was rewarded when Death finally nodded and reached towards her with one bony hand. She shook it politely.

**_Then we have a contract, Mary Lennox. Let us see if I can find food for you._ **

Death led her through the rooms, until they came to the dining-room where the remains of a hastily abandoned dinner were still laid out. Some of the chairs had been knocked over in the diners' apparent haste to take their leave, but save for a few plates their was plenty of food left for eating. Death seemed pleased, and perhaps a little proud of themselves.

**_And here is food for you. I understand that fruit is especially important for the short living. You should eat plenty of it._ **

Mary was so hungry, she didn’t even mind being told what she should eat most of. She clambered up onto one of the chairs and settled down to munching. Death moved various plates closer or further from her in a fussy manners, as if still nervous about their ability to take care of a child.

Mary was not by nature a caring person, nor was she very interested in other people’s worries. Still, Death had said that they had never done this before, and Mary did not wish to be constantly bothered by their nerves.

She patted Death’s hand when they brought over more fruit. “This food is very good. You have done well.”

Death’s shoulders slumped a little in relief and they seemed to smile, although it was a little hard to tell. **_Thank you. I confess that I may be in danger of over-doing it._**

Mary shook her head, but turned back to eating without further comment. She was very hungry, after all.

*

Her meal finished, Mary and Death made their way back to her room. The wailing and crying had frightened her horribly, and she wanted very much to shut herself away again and hide.

Death seemed to approve of this immensely, but faltered a little once the door was closed.

**_Ought I to put you to bed somehow? I had not often seen it done, but I have a vague idea._ **

Mary eyed the figure with some scepticism. She did not think that Death was very good at putting children to bed, and was not at all interested in explaining the process to them right now.

“No, I will do that myself. But I would like to hear you tell me stories.”

Death had been about to relax, but stiffened again at her demand. **_I do not know any stories for children._**

Mary waved away such quibbles. “I do not want those stories! My old Ayah told me all the ones she knew and I am tired of them now. Tell me new stories. You should know some; everyone knows stories!”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, but before Mary could become properly bad-tempered, Death spoke.

**_I can tell you some of the things I have seen if you like?_ **

Mary nodded, content once more to have her demands met in a somewhat timely manner.

“You may do so.”

Death arranged themselves in a chair next to the bed and began speaking. They were obviously not very good at telling stories, never really beginning at the beginning and nothing laid out in a very interesting manner, but Mary provided what advice she could about the correct format of stories and gradually as time went on Death seemed to improve.

Death told Mary about cities which were once as grand as anything in the Empire, but which were now only crumbled ruins and dust, if anything was left at all. Some, Death said, had been entirely taken over by plants, others by animals, and when Mary asked if the animals talked, like they did sometimes in her books, Death said that they would have to check.

Death told her about terrible battles which had been fought, although Death was a little uncertain about the reasons for why, and Mary had to become a little cross with them for not knowing. Death countered that most of the people fighting those battles had not really seemed to know either and Mary concluded that everyone was very stupid about everything.

Death started to tell her about some of the great plagues, but quickly stopped and spoke of other things, and Mary did not wish to return to the topic either. They spoke instead of kings and princes and rajahs in throne-rooms with jewels and servants and shining toys.

Mary had never been so interested by a person as she was by Death, and Death seemed deeply flattered by her attention.

 ** _Usually people try to say as little as possible to me and avoid me as much as I can._** Death said.

Mary was not given to sympathising with others, but she nodded almost kindly at this. “No one wants to spend time with me either. My Ayah didn’t like me, and she _had_ to. The Mem Sahib never spoke to me or came to see me either.”

Death smiled again, and asked if Mary would like to sleep now. Mary was very sleepy, but she was not without natural suspicion,

“When I wake up, will you still be here?”

Death looked a little sad. **_I suspect not. I have stayed here much longer than I should have and there is always so much for me to do._**

Mary became quite upset at being shamelessly abandoned, and the sadness of Death did not make her feel in the least bit better.

**_I will not forget you, Mary Lennox. If it is agreeable to you, I shall come and visit you again?_ **

Mary sniffed at Death’s contrite figure for a moment and then nodded. “I should like to see you again, I think.”

They shook hands once again. **_Then we have a contract, Mary Lennox_** , said Death before they were gone. Mary was only sad for a moment however, before she fell straight to sleep.

*

_“Barney!” he cried out. “There is a child here! A child alone! In a place like this! Mercy on us, who is she!”_

_“I am Mary Lennox,” the little girl said, drawing herself up stiffly. She thought the man was very rude to call her father’s bungalow “A place like this!” “I fell asleep when everyone had the cholera and I have only just wakened up. Why does nobody come?”_

_“It is the child no one ever saw!” exclaimed the man, turning to his companions. “She has actually been forgotten!”_

_“Why was I forgotten?” Mary said, stamping her foot. “Why does nobody come?”_

_The young man whose name was Barney looked at her very sadly. Mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away._

_“Poor little kid!” he said. “There is nobody left to come.”_

_It was in that strange and sudden way that Mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a Missie Sahib. That was why the place was so quiet._


	2. “Stand no nonsense from young ones.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not exactly thrilled with how this chapter came out, but faced with the choice of putting it up as is, or abandoning the fic altogether, I chose the former! Perhaps at some point in the future I'll be able to come back and fix it up a bit?

_When Mrs. Crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to England in a few days and go to her uncle, Mr. Archibald Craven, who lived at Misselthwaite Manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her. They tried to be kind to her, but she only turned her face away when Mrs. Crawford attempted to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when Mr. Crawford patted her shoulder._

_“She is such a plain child,” Mrs. Crawford said pityingly, afterward. “And her mother was such a pretty creature. She had a very pretty manner, too, and Mary has the most unattractive ways I ever saw in a child. The children call her ‘Mistress Mary Quite Contrary,’ and though it’s naughty of them, one can’t help understanding it.”_

_“Perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery Mary might have learned some pretty ways too. It is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all.”_

_“I believe she scarcely ever looked at her,” sighed Mrs. Crawford. “When her Ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing. Think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow. Colonel McGrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room.”_

*

Mary knew that she would not like the Crawfords from her very first night with them.

Mrs Crawford, possibly intending to be kind, wished to fuss and fret over the idea of Mary being left alone in the house with only the dead for company for days until the officers found her. Mary, intending to be left alone, said that she was not alone at all, for Death had kept watch over her and told her stories. The Crawfords were entirely unprepared for such a conversation.

The children thought that she was lying, and teased her and no matter how cross Mary became, or how she cried that she was telling the truth, none of them believed her. Mary made up her mind to be as horrible as she knew how to them in revenge, and passed herself off quite creditably on that score.

Mr Crawford, being an English clergyman, assumed that she was speaking of angels and being watched over by the Lord. In an effort to dispel what she considered to be nonsense (if Death had been an angel, Mary felt sure that they would not have hesitated to say so) and make herself understood, Mary tried to tell Mr Crawford some of the stories Death had told to her. Sadly, Mr Crawford only took this as a sign of her interest in History instead. Mary spent several very unhappy hours listening to his speaking of his history lessons from his schooldays, half-remembered as they were. Mary was not at all interested in being told history in such a dry form, nor in hearing it told by someone who had not personally witnessed it, a feature she felt to be vital to the proper telling. Eventually they both gave up the endeavour of understanding each other, and Mary resigned herself to the stupidity of Mr Crawford’s belief in angels.

Mrs Crawford was somehow the worst of the family, in Mary’s considered opinion. She feared that being ‘shut up in that house with only the … bodies’ had unhinged Mary somehow, that perhaps her mind had been unable to understand death at all, or that perhaps even that Mary had been ‘strange’ to begin with and that was why she had been left to the servants. Mary had never been so stiff and silent as when she understood that Mrs Crawford thought that she was mad. She was silent whenever possible, she never raised her voice, no matter what the children say.

Mrs Crawford’s fears diminished with time, but by then the lesson was well-learnt. Mary never mentioned Death and the decent care they took of her to anyone again.

The Crawfords continued to be unsettled by Mary regardless. They expected her to be sad, she thought, that her parents were dead, but as Mary rarely ever saw them, their loss was not at all great. The children tried to tease her by suggesting that she was to have a terrible time of it in England, but since Mary did not feel that her life in India had been so very remarkable, and she was certain that her time with the Crawford’s was certainly quite terrible, she was unmoved by such ominous prophecies. 

*

Mary found the long voyage to England to be quite dreadfully dull for the most part. The officer’s wife ignored her for the most part, absorbed as she was by her own two children, young and loud and, in Mary’s opinion, remarkably… wet. They seemed to require constant mopping.

Mary preferred to spend her time out on the decks, looking over the waves and towards the horizon. The deck-hands worried about her at first, as she tended to find places to sit which she found to be best for watching the sea, and they found to be dangerous in the extreme. Mary was not at all accustomed to reassuring others, and since she was now acquainted with Death personally – not that she would ever have told the men this – she saw no reason to take undue care when Death was not actually present. Eventually the deck-hands left her alone, much as the servants in India had, and Mary could watch the waves without interruption.

It occurred to her, now that she was actually travelling there, that she knew almost nothing about England. Death had not mentioned it in particular during their stories. Sometimes Mary wished that she had known of her fate so that she might have asked for more specific stories. Presumably Death took place in England too, after all? Other times, Mary felt that England’s apparent lack of interesting events suggested that there was nothing whatever amusing to be found there and she was glad to have heard of more worthwhile stories.

She was not a child much given to thinking of the thoughts of others, but sometimes Mary wondered whether Death would remember her? Perhaps they had forgotten her already; certainly they seemed to have met an astonishing number of people in the world. Death had promised to visit her after all, but Mary had no way of knowing when such an event might occur. She was not at all sure that there was a way to invite Death to visit.

She made up her mind not to think about it too much. Instead she would see if there was anything worthwhile in England for her to take note of, and in the event that Death should visit soon, she would have stories of her own to tell.

*

_“I suppose you might as well be told something—to prepare you. You are going to a queer place.”_

_Mary said nothing at all, and Mrs. Medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on._

_“Not but that it’s a grand big place in a gloomy way, and Mr. Craven’s proud of it in his way—and that’s gloomy enough, too. The house is six hundred years old and it’s on the edge of the moor, and there’s near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them’s shut up and locked. And there’s pictures and fine old furniture and things that’s been there for ages, and there’s a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground—some of them.” She paused and took another breath. “But there’s nothing else,” she ended suddenly._

_Mary had begun to listen in spite of herself. It all sounded so unlike India, and anything new rather attracted her. But she did not intend to look as if she were interested. That was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways. So she sat still._

_“Well,” said Mrs. Medlock. “What do you think of it?”_

_“Nothing,” she answered. “I know nothing about such places.”_

_That made Mrs. Medlock laugh a short sort of laugh._

_“Eh!” she said, “but you are like an old woman. Don’t you care?”_

_“It doesn’t matter” said Mary, “whether I care or not.”_

_“You are right enough there,” said Mrs. Medlock. “It doesn’t. What you’re to be kept at Misselthwaite Manor for I don’t know, unless because it’s the easiest way. He’s not going to trouble himself about you, that’s sure and certain. He never troubles himself about no one.”_

*

Mrs Medlock was amazed to hear that Mary knew nothing of her uncle, nor of her family in general. Mary just looked at her expectantly until the silence compelled the housekeeper to fill it.

It seemed that her father had been her uncle’s wife’s brother, and later she found out that her uncle’s wife was dead. She felt sorry for her uncle, who appeared more like a character from her nursery books than a real person to her. But deep down, Mary felt a little as though this was fitting. In many ways Death had been kinder to Mary than many living people she knew. If her only connection to her new guardian and her new life was through the dead, then this had to be a good sign.

Naturally she did not speak these thoughts aloud. She had learned from her time with the Crawfords, after all, and knew that stories of Death had to be concealed with great care. Not being of a nature to share things in general, Mary did not find this as difficult as other children might have.

Mrs Medlock was much given to chatter, it seemed to Mary, and needed no encouragement to fill the carriage with the sound of her own voice. She would speak, it seemed, whether Mary was listening or not, and Mary added the conversation to her list of things about which it did not matter what she thought. That list had not been so very long before, when she had lived in India, and Mary was not at all enjoying the experience.

She supposed the idea of a grey, grand house all alone on the moor (whatever a moor might be) ought to have been a little frightening, inhabited as it seemed to be by only servants, the dead and a grieving man. It was like something from a story; not one of her books of course, as Mary's Ayah had been a nervous lady who was constantly wary of frightening her charge. It naturally did not occur to Mary that there would have been grave consequences had her Ayah frightened Mary enough that she might have disturbed her parents in some way. No, it was all very reminiscent of one of Death's tales, of places which had once been grand and full of life but were now only fit for the dead and those who remembered them. Mary had heard of graves and graveyards; perhaps the house was like that? She wondered if she would like the house, therefore? Or perhaps not, since Mary was not yet dead herself and had no particular wish to become so.

Lacking any other choice as she was, Mary resigned herself to living in Misselthwaite Manor, with her sad hunchbacked Uncle and her dead Aunt. Perhaps, if Mary was especially lucky, ghosts might really exist and she could have one to talk to? She wondered a little if ghosts could speak. She wished that she had thought to ask Death about such things, but there was little help for it now. She would find out soon enough, regardless.

*

Mary had no way of knowing, of course, that her still face and solemn stare unnerved the poor woman greatly. Mary’s eyes seemed to look straight through the older woman, as if she had seen a great many things in her young life and found all before her greatly lacking by comparison. She seemed to take no interest in anything, and as such appeared surprised by nothing. When the housekeeper had likened the child to an old woman, it had not only been her manner of speech. The child put Mrs Medlock quite in mind of the stories her grandmother would tell her of changeling children, with her old eyes and her stiff little voice. But surely that was all nonsense?

Perhaps the strange child would fit right into the strange house? Perhaps. It was more likely, however that she would try to get constantly underfoot, and Mrs Medlock resolved to keep a tight reign over the young Miss Mary.

*

_“She was a sweet, pretty thing and he’d have walked the world over to get her a blade o’ grass she wanted. Nobody thought she’d marry him, but she did, and people said she married him for his money. But she didn’t—she didn’t,” positively. “When she died—”_

_Mary gave a little involuntary jump._

_“Oh! did she die!” she exclaimed, quite without meaning to. She had just remembered a French fairy story she had once read called “Riquet à la Houppe.” It had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made her suddenly sorry for Mr. Archibald Craven._

_“Yes, she died,” Mrs. Medlock answered. “And it made him queerer than ever. He cares about nobody. He won’t see people. Most of the time he goes away, and when he is at Misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the West Wing and won’t let anyone but Pitcher see him. Pitcher’s an old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his ways.”_

 


	3. 'We're Both Of Us As Sour As We Look.'

_She could see the tops of trees above the wall, and when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly he burst into his winter song—almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her._

_She stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling—even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself. If she had been an affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though she was “Mistress Mary Quite Contrary” she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile. She listened to him until he flew away. He was not like an Indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should ever see him again. Perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it._

_Perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought so much of the deserted garden. She was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like. Why had Mr. Archibald Craven buried the key? If he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden? She wondered if she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully to ask him why he had done such a queer thing._

_“People never like me and I never like people,” she thought. “And I never can talk as the Crawford children could. They were always talking and laughing and making noises.”_

*

English gardens seemed to be nothing but grey and deadness, Mary thought as she walked the various pathways she could find. There was frost everywhere too, which sparkled in the weak sunlight but only served to highlight how very dead everything was around her.

Just as Mary was about to feel thoroughly bored and seek out Ben Weatherstaff to ask him more questions (whether or not he wished to answer them was immaterial) she spotted something from the corner of her eye which gave her a little skip of delight. Was it-? Surely, she saw…

Chasing the indistinct figure through the faint mist of rising steam, she finally caught up to them and reach out to grasp one of the huge boned hands that poked out from flowing robes.

“Death! You came to visit at last!”

Death turned and solemnly bowed to their young once-charge.

 _I have business nearby, Mary Lennox, but I considered that the detour to seek out your company likely to be worth it_.

“Oh!” Mary gasped, struck by a sudden thought, “Have you come because of the dead gardens?”

Death paused, looking at her in confusion. _The dead gardens?_

Mary waved her hand at the gardens, all bare and grey and clearly lying dead around them. “Yes, the gardens are dead. Have you come because of them? Like you came before because all the people were dead?”

Death nodded for a moment, appreciating her point, then shook it instead to disagree with her.

 _The gardens are not dead, Mary Lennox. They are…sleeping?_ Death was clearly uncertain of the term, and Mary was not convinced at all.

“That’s what everyone said when my parents died,” she scowled up at Death’s looming figure, angry that they would try such an obvious lie with her. Death was not an accomplished liar, Mary thought, and should certainly redirect their efforts in other directions. “In India, after the soldiers found me and took me away. They said that my parents were sleeping, but they were dead. I don’t know why they didn’t think I knew that. When one is asleep one wakes up. When one does not wake up then one is dead. Everything here is dead and I – I –“

 She sniffed and blinked hard. Mary Lennox was not in the habit of crying but she was so frustrated with _everything_ and she wished that just _one_ person would listen when she spoke and speak to her properly.

“I _won’t_ be lied to by Death! I _won’t_!” Mary stomped her foot, frustration dulling any pain she might have felt from the frozen ground. “A soldier once told the Mem Sahib that the only true thing in life was Death and that means you have to tell me the truth! Death isn’t sleeping, it _isn’t_!’

Death crouched down in front of her and gazed at Mary silently for a moment, giving Mary enough time to calm a little and feel less as if she wished to kick the robed figure and more as if she would like a good cry. Then, with the careful movements of one who has never done a thing before, Death solemnly offered her a handkerchief from somewhere in the folds of their robes. Mary looked at it for a long moment before she took it and sniffed a little, solemnly nodding her thanks.

Looking around, Death nudged her gently to sit on a nearby stone bench, and then folded their own tall figure down to sit beside her. They sat in silence for a long moment, and Mary finished using the handkerchief with more concentration than the task ought to have taken; she was _not_ going to be the one to speak first!

Death, so far as could be seen within their robes, had no actual throat, and so it must have been something of a struggle for them to clear it. Nevertheless, they managed, before speaking in gruff tones not entirely unlike Ben Weatherstaff.

_It has been many years since I have had the opportunity to speak with a person for an extended amount of time, Mary Lennox. I regret that I am unskilled in the art-form, and that I have brought you distress._

Mary shrugged, she did not care in the least for the apologies of her former Ayah. She sat there, looking firmly at the frosted grass and twisting the handkerchief between her fingers. It was nothing to her that Death had perhaps had even fewer people to speak to in their life as she had.

_I too am puzzled by the tendency for adults to tell their young untruths. This seems unhelpful, as children must come to live – and indeed die - in the world just as much as the adults who went before them… Perhaps they thought that you would not understand?_

Mary nodded, still refusing to look to her companion. “I rather think so too. People can be very foolish indeed, I think.”

_That, Mary Lennox, I can most definitely confirm to be true._

Death sounded distinctly amused and Mary felt her chest warm up a little, despite the cold weather. She had not been much given to being amused herself, though she often required those around her to try. She had, she felt quite certain, _never_ amused another being in her whole life. It was a nice feeling.

Still, some matters could not be allowed to rest unresolved. “Death is not sleep though.”

_It is not. Although there can be forms of sleep from which a person does not wake up, it is not the same thing at all. You are certainly clever enough to know the difference, Mary Lennox. But plants are not like people, you see._

Mary looked up at the figure’s hooded face, startled. “How are they different?”

_Plants do not sleep, as people do, but they do live, and they do die. But they also have a … state which lies in between these states. I do not know what it is currently named, but it is brought on by Winter, and allows the plants to more wisely use their energy. They will not try to grow until there is light and warmth enough to make such a course of action easier, and so for now they rest beneath the soil and bark and wait for the coming of Spring._

Mary’s eyes were wide with wonderment. “Truly? Plants can simply hide from the cold frost like that? For how long?”

Death was often asked questions in their role, but usually only the same ones. Questions like ‘How could this happen to me?’ or ‘What will happen now?’ No one ever asked Death about matters of life, and they found themselves deeply flattered to be considered such an expert.

Mary and Death sat side-by-side for the whole afternoon, quite oblivious to the cold as they spoke of the interesting things Death knew about plants. They spoke of plants which liked to feed animals and how they grew berries and blossoms to make such a thing convenient. They spoke of plants which liked to be left firmly alone, and how they had cunning defences to keep hungry mouths at bay. They spoke of plants which in fact ate the animals!

Mary was so interested that she forgot to be unhappy and cross. She forgot that she was cold, and that no one in Misselthwaite Manor liked her and that she did not much like them. Perhaps she did not much like people, but she was quite certain that she liked plants a great deal; they were far more interesting! Imagine so many different types, and all so clever; to even be able to mimic death without dying as if it were no great matter!

“I wonder what the pants are like in the secret garden?” Mary mused.

It occurred to her that walls and doors and locks were probably not much of an obstacle to Death. Her companion was clearly of the same mind for they responded with poorly disguised interest,

 _I would be happy to go and find out for you, if you wished it?_ Then Death paused, thought of something, before shaking their head apologetically. _I regret that I cannot bring you through the walls with me, however._

Mary, who had been about to ask that very thing, sat and thought on the matter for a moment. She finally shook her head.

“Thank you, but no. I should like very much to find the way into the garden myself, for I know that there must be one somewhere. Martha told me that Mr Craven ‘locked the gate and buried the key’, you see? And that means that both door and key must be around here somewhere. I shall find it interesting to look for them, I think.”

Death nodded, understanding.

_I expect that you shall, Mary Lennox. I would very much enjoy seeing the garden for the first time with you to show it to me. Few things are shown to me by those who have sought them, you know._

Mary smiled a little, looking much prettier as she did so. “Then we have a contract, Death.”

She held out her hand very solemnly, like a little old woman, as Ben Weatherstaff would have said. Death however took her hand just as solemnly and they shook on the matter once more.

_Indeed we do, Mary Lennox. And now I must wish you good fortune in your searching, for I have other matters I must attend to._

Mary nodded; she had expected as much. “Thank you for coming to visit me. It has been very dull here so far.”

Death’s shoulders seemed to straighten in pride. _It has been a pleasure to visit you, Mary Lennox. I have not had someone to visit before, and I find that our conversations are very … different._

That evening, Martha noted that Mary seemed much more cheerful than she had ever seen her before. Whatever had she been up to, that she seemed almost happy?

Mary looked at Martha over her potatoes, her little faceless severe than usual when Martha asked her questions. “I was in the gardens.”

“Eh, well we mun’ get you out there more often then, if this is the change it brings over you!”

Mary only nodded, and went back to her dinner. She wished very much to be able to show Death the secret garden when they next came to visit, and for that she would need her strength.

*

_She ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning. Then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and beginning to preen his feathers with his beak._

_“It is the garden,” she said. “I am sure it is.”_

_She walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found what she had found before—that there was no door in it. Then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door._

_“It’s very queer,” she said. “Ben Weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door. But there must have been one ten years ago, because Mr. Craven buried the key.”_

_This gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to Misselthwaite Manor. In India she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything. The fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little._

_She stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable. She did not feel cross when Martha chattered away. She felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question. She asked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire._

_“Why did Mr. Craven hate the garden?” she said._

_She had made Martha stay with her and Martha had not objected at all. She was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found it dull in the great servants’ hall downstairs where the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her Yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered among themselves. Martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in India, and been waited upon by “blacks,” was novelty enough to attract her._

_She sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked._

_“Art tha’ thinkin’ about that garden yet?” she said. “I knew tha’ would. That was just the way with me when I first heard about it.”_


	4. The Strangest House Anyone Ever Lived In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Urgh! This got re-written at least three times, and I'm still not entirely convinced about it! Still, imperfect is better than non-existant, I suppose! Let me know what you think, yeah?

_But as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else. She did not know what it was, because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the wind itself. It was a curious sound—it seemed almost as if a child were crying somewhere. Sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying, but presently Mistress Mary felt quite sure this sound was inside the house, not outside it. It was far away, but it was inside. She turned round and looked at Martha._

_“Do you hear anyone crying?” she said._

_Martha suddenly looked confused._

_“No,” she answered. “It’s th’ wind. Sometimes it sounds like as if someone was lost on th’ moor an’ wailin’. It’s got all sorts o’ sounds.”_

_“But listen,” said Mary. “It’s in the house—down one of those long corridors.”_

_And at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere downstairs; for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly than ever._

_“There!” said Mary. “I told you so! It is someone crying—and it isn’t a grown-up person.”_

_Martha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it they both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang, and then everything was quiet, for even the wind ceased “wutherin’” for a few moments._

_“It was th’ wind,” said Martha stubbornly. “An’ if it wasn’t, it was little Betty Butterworth, th’ scullery-maid. She’s had th’ toothache all day.”_

_But something troubled and awkward in her manner made Mistress Mary stare very hard at her. She did not believe she was speaking the truth._

*****

Mary was quite engrossed by both robin and newly discovered key when Death came again to visit her. She quite jumped in surprise when a tall robed figure appeared beside her where none had been a moment before.

 _I see that you have made progress in your search, Mary Lennox_.

Mary was very glad to have someone with which to share her discovery, since she was quite certain that she ought not to allow anyone from the manor – not even Martha – know that she was seeking the way into the secret garden. Getting to her feet, she proudly held out her prize to her companion.

“Hello, Death. Yes, I think that this is the key to the door too! The robin showed me where to find it, you see.”

_How very helpful of him. It is a relief to know that you have someone to speak to in my absence._

Death and the robin looked at each other very carefully. Mary had the distinct impression that they were communicating just as much as she would with Ben Weatherstaff or with Martha, but she had no notion of what they might be saying to each other. She considered being offended, but dismisses the idea almost immediately: she is the only person to frequently speak to Death but that is no reason why they may not speak to other creatures.

Mary was not a covetous creature by nature; so long as her own wants were met there was no call to prevent the pleasures of others.

And besides, Death seemed to be genuinely pleased that Mary was not entirely alone in their absence. The feeling had none of the warmth that books ascribe to being cared for, but rather the unshakable, deep _sturdiness_ of the stone the manor is built from. Cold, yes, but long-lasting. Mary rather felt that she would rather have ageless certainty over fleeting warmth.

Speaking of Misselthwaite Manor…

“Death,” Mary began, wary as ever of sounding foolish but curious enough to risk it, “Death, do ghosts exist?”

Death paused, and although Mary still could not seem their face at all in the shadow of the hooded robe, she got the distinct impression that Death had grimaced with distaste.

_It has been known for some people to be… unhelpfully stubborn after their passing, I regret to say. I would prefer not to discuss the matter._

For a long moment, Mary could only stand there and stare at her unworldly companion. There was something about death’s tone which was… oddly familiar. Not the words, nor the voice, but something about the way Death stood, the tone of their voice was almost… If the figure were a little smaller and the voice higher in pitch, then surely…

Mary’s eyes widened dramatically, and suddenly she found that an odd bubbling noise came overflowing out of her, quite unlike any sensation she had ever experienced before in her life. The Crawford children had done this, sometimes privately and sometimes at her: laughing, that was what this feeling was. Mary wrapped her arms around her chest as if this could hold the feeling in, but her small frame shook and shook as fresh peal of laughter burst out.

Death very distinctly _sniffed_ and shifted in a manner which was very clearly _most_ discomforted.

_I see no reason for such amusement, Mary Lennox. The unreasonable obstinacy of some people is a great cause of vexation in my life, and leads to much untidiness in my business, I can assure you. It is no laughing matter._

Mary Lennox had not consistently got her own way in her short life by respecting the preferences of others, of course, and she was far too diverted to care over-much for Death’s frustrated sensibilities.

“No wonder Martha doesn’t do as I say when I give her orders, I must have sounded exactly like you!” Death sniffed pointedly again, and Mary at last managed to bring her mirth under better regulation. Honest amusement was all well and good, she felt, but it would not do at all to offend her companion and be left alone at Misslethwaite. Death was by far the most interesting person in her life and she rather felt that she would miss them if they refused to come at all.

She held out her hand and took one of Death’s in her grasp. “There now, I promise not to laugh about it any further.” Death looked distinctly mollified at this assurance and Mary leaned up against them a little as something about the way Death had phrased the existence of ghosts caught her notice.

“Death, do you mean that ghosts exist because people are too contrary to die?”

Death huffed, and looked to the sky, to the hedges and to the robin as if calling for rescue, but Mary had begun to learn patience and she simply waited and stayed silent and eventually she was rewarded by a sigh of capitulation.

_I suppose… yes. The power of the human mind is one which I have ever found to be fascinating. Do you know that I have seen people know without a single shred of doubt that the action they wish to take is doomed to failure, and then try it anyway?_

Mary shook her head, interested despite herself. “Did it work?”

Death became positively animated as they warmed to the topic in hand.

_Indeed it did! Or at least, it worked out far better than it had any right to. Many of those I was sure would die managed to pull themselves through and buy themselves many extra years through hard work and stubbornness. It was quite extraordinary, even if it did make a dreadful mess of my schedule. It is as if humans can re-arrange themselves, their bodies and the reality around them to suit their own will if they try hard enough. I doubt that I shall ever tire of humanity; they are a constant source of surprise._

Mary stared at Death for a long moment; wide-eyed and startled.

“I thought that it was a bad thing to be contrary? That it made one unpleasant to deal with and was ill-mannered?” She finally ventured, not apologetic or guilty, but rather pondering and perplexed.

Death shrugged, unconcerned with such minor issues as good manners in general.

_I think it depends upon why one is being contrary, and what one is being contrary against. As with all human skills, it is the end goal which tends to be remembered rather than the methods used in accomplishing it._

_I know that it is very vexing for me to be prevented in my role as guide and final aid for the living as they travel to what is beyond, but there are some who are most determined to do so. That the end result they often achieve is to spend all of time alone, unable to speak to others, or enjoy their old pleasures seems a poor return on such an investment of energy and character, but I suppose that as Death I have a limited view of such things._

“Hmmm…” Mary scrunched up her nose a little, thinking deeply. She was not given to self-reflection very often, but this seemed like a topic well-worth putting in the effort for. She certainly knew herself to be thought contrary by others, had been told so often after her parents had died, but she had given no real though as to what she wished to achieve by being so.

Wanting Martha to help her dress had seemed, once she had learned to do it herself, to be a much smaller thing than… than going against what everyone, including Mr Craven’s orders, to find the secret garden and see what was inside. That was a very contrary thing to do, she suspected, but she still meant to do it, and Death and the robin both seemed to think no particular ill of her for wanting to do so.

Beside Mary, her robed companion shifted in an uncomfortable manner and unbent enough to venture a counter-enquiry.

_Is there a reason you wish to know about … the unquiet dead, Mary Lennox?_

Mary nodded in a manner which was almost eager and excited, though only the robin was around to bear the moment witness.

“Oh yes! I think that there must be such a creature in the house, for I keep hearing the sound of a child crying, but none of the others will own to hearing it, and if they must do so then they tell such ridiculous lies to disguise the sound.”

_Indeed?_

Glad to have finally found an interested and sympathetic ear, Mary vented her many frustrations on the general stupidity of adults and their frankly appalling capacity for lies. Death nodded and agreed with Mary’s assertion that the cries of a child were _quite_ different to those of an adult, and as the survivor amidst a cholera epidemic, she had experienced plenty of opportunities to hear a wide enough sample of both types to know that full-well. Death was also of the firm opinion that the sound of the wind on the moor and the sound of a crying person were entirely different as well.

_I have never understood the human need to treat the weather as if it were a person, you know. Some of the more artistic types of people go so far as to ascribe emotions and opinions to perfectly natural phenomena such as the wind or the rain, and it is most perplexing. Anthropomorphising the natural features of life is quite unnecessary._

The robin seemed to find this so amusing that he nearly fell out of the sky. Mary resolved to ask after the joke another time.

_So this mysterious crying has suggested to you the possibility of a ghost being in residence, I take it?_

Death sounded neither encouraging nor sceptical, merely interested to see where Mary’s reasoning had taken her. She nodded, gesturing to the manor house with its grey stone and stark windows, at once forbidding and yet somehow also pleasingly settling. In her most fanciful moments (which were not frequent for Mary was not a child given to flights of the imagination, and certainly not when her life was already so filled with unusual features) Mary liked to think of Misselthwaite Manor as being very much like herself; not amusing at all, but also not apologetic about that fact. Perhaps that was why she was growing so fond of the grey, empty place?

“Yes indeed, it is exactly the sort of place which ought to have a ghost, I should think. All those empty rooms filled with the belongings of people who must have died a very long time ago, and no one to go into them ever since. There is a painting, you know, of a little girl about my age, and I hope that she is the ghost; it would be nice to have someone else to talk to when you are not here.”

Mary had not entirely intended to say that last, but somehow the thought that Death might think that she wished for someone to replace them entirely was unbearable and she had rushed to provide reassurance before the idea had even fully formed.

Death was silent for a long moment and then, to the very great surprise of both parties, they wrapped an arm around Mary’s thin shoulders very carefully, in the manner of someone who has seen such a thing done, but has never attempted to try it themselves before. Mary might have stiffened dreadfully if anyone else had tried such a thing, but here she only leaned closely against Death’s robes and sighed a little. She had never been lonely in India, she thought, or perhaps that was not true? Perhaps she had indeed been lonely, but had been surrounded by so many people that she had not noticed?

_And what would you do with a ghost, if you were to find them, I wonder?_

Mary frowned; the idea had only been a fleeting one until this moment, and now she was not entirely sure. “I don’t know. What can ghosts do?”

Death huffed a little, perhaps in amusement, or perhaps in resignation that they were indeed going to have to speak at length about a subject they disliked. Mary patted their arm in case this was encouraging.

It must have worked, for Death at last began to speak freely enough about different types of ghosts; angry ones that broke things and screamed in the night; quiet ones that did nothing but cry and cry, the odd shadows that seemed not to know if they were really there or not, and cast odd shapes but nothing else. Mary hoped for a trickster ghost who might annoy Mrs Medlock by leaving things where they did not belong and upended things, but she thought that she would not like for the ghost to try such tricks on her.

“Can one make agreements with ghosts, do you think?” She asked, for if this were a possibility then she would certainly wish to take advantage of such a thing.

Death seemed at a loss for a moment, considering.

_As the unwelcome herald of their demise, I would not know either way. Perhaps, if there is a ghost for you to find, you will be able to find out for the both of us._

Mary was rather pleased at this idea; it had not occurred to her that she might be able to find someone out on Death’s behalf! Death knew everything there was to know, surely?

_No indeed, though you are kind to think such a thing, Mary Lennox. I regret that there are many things on which I cannot speak with authority._

From beyond the walled gardens, Martha’s voice called for Mary, interrupting whatever she might have said in response. She sighed a little, for Death’s visits were not nearly so frequent as to be satisfactory, though they were certainly better than nothing.

“I suppose that I must go. If Martha is calling that loudly, I am probably late for dinner.”

Death huffed; this time it was certainly amusement. _It has been a pleasure as always, Mary Lennox. I am glad to see that you are making progress on your quest to find the hidden garden._

“Mary?!” Martha’s voice was closer and she sounded more worried than before.

Mary sighed once more, hopping down from the bench and looking up at Death. “Goodbye then, I hope that I can show you the garden next time you come to visit, but please don’t’ feel that you must wait until then.”

It was a surprisingly heartfelt little speech for such a child as Mary was, but she had no opportunity to see if Death would agree or not, for at that moment Martha came around the corner and Mary was far more preoccupied in hiding the key she had found in her pocket and stonily refusing to answer Martha’s questions about where she had been and why she had not come in to eat to see Death leaving.

 She was not worried though; Death seemed happy to come and visit her when they could, and Mary saw no reason to doubt that they would continue to do so. She sighed and allowed Martha to drag her back to the house, though she ate her dinner with enough enthusiasm that the Yorkshire lass was considerably mollified to know that the strange silent girl had at least come to no harm in her disappearance.

*****

_She opened the door of the room and went into the corridor, and then she began her wanderings. It was a long corridor and it branched into other corridors and it led her up short flights of steps which mounted to others again. There were doors and doors, and there were pictures on the walls. Sometimes they were pictures of dark, curious landscapes, but oftenest they were portraits of men and women in queer, grand costumes made of satin and velvet. She found herself in one long gallery whose walls were covered with these portraits. She had never thought there could be so many in any house. She walked slowly down this place and stared at the faces which also seemed to stare at her. She felt as if they were wondering what a little girl from India was doing in their house. Some were pictures of children—little girls in thick satin frocks which reached to their feet and stood out about them, and boys with puffed sleeves and lace collars and long hair, or with big ruffs around their necks. She always stopped to look at the children, and wonder what their names were, and where they had gone, and why they wore such odd clothes. There was a stiff, plain little girl rather like herself. She wore a green brocade dress and held a green parrot on her finger. Her eyes had a sharp, curious look._

_“Where do you live now?” said Mary aloud to her. “I wish you were here.”_

_Surely no other little girl ever spent such a queer morning. It seemed as if there was no one in all the huge rambling house but her own small self, wandering about upstairs and down, through narrow passages and wide ones, where it seemed to her that no one but herself had ever walked. Since so many rooms had been built, people must have lived in them, but it all seemed so empty that she could not quite believe it true._

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, check out my blog for random thoughts on writing, fantasy, dragons and folklore. Also there's a tiny dragon as a guest-star, so that can't be bad!  
> I can be found at: <https://herebeblog.wordpress.com/>


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